Memories of What Never Was
by bohowriter
Summary: In an interview with NPR's "Fresh Air," Ed Helms pointed out that Andy is not the type of individual who would know how to play the banjo.  Herein lies my take on how Andy learned to play the banjo, set mostly in 1983 when he is 10 years old.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** "Memories of What Never Was"

**Author**: bohowriter

**Setting:** season 5 (after Andy and Dwight's "jam session" at the end of "Michael Scott Paper Company"), and mostly set in a flashback to 1983.

**Summary**: In short, how a young Andy Bernard learned to play the banjo.

**Author's Note:** The title comes from Steve Martin's song "Daddy Played the Banjo." Basically this whole idea came from listening to an interview with Ed Helms on NPR's "Fresh Air." Helms said that the Office writers thought it would be funny to incorporate his banjo-playing into the show, but that there is really no good reason why Andy Bernard – a privileged, yuppie boy from Connecticut – would even be a banjo player to begin with. I thought that was an interesting perspective, so I wanted to create a possible background. There's pretty much nothing in the show to support this, but I still tried to stay within the realm of plausibility. If you see anything that directly contradicts the show's universe (e.g., especially anything Andy's said about his upbringing), definitely let me know. This is a work-in-progress so reviews are, as always, very much appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**_Scranton, PA: April 2009_**

"You're actually not that bad on the banjo," Dwight commented to Andy as they were walking to their cars. This was after their breakroom jam session had ended, after Toby had broken it up, after both men had forgotten that they were trying to impress the same woman. "You could use a little work," Dwight continued, "But really, not too bad."

By this point in his stint at Scranton, Andy knew better than to take Dwight's criticisms to heart. This was as close to genuine appreciation as he or anyone else would get from Dwight.

"Thanks. You're not too shabby on the ol' six-string yourself," Andy replied, drawling out the latter part of the sentence in his best southern voice.

Dwight smiled and looked down at the guitar fondly. "My grandfather taught me to play when I was little. He also taught me how to identify a black bear's mating call." Dwight paused and looked at Andy. "Different day, of course."

"Oh, of course."

"But how do you learn the banjo in Connecticut?" Dwight asked. "I mean, I grew up in the country. You never really struck me as the banjo-playing type."

Andy shrugged. "Kind of the same situation. Had a family member who knew how to play, he taught me, and the rest is history."

Dwight frowned incredulously. "In between golfing and sailing lessons?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Andy replied vaguely. He got into his car and waved. "See you later, Dwight – keep working on 'Country Roads' and we'll play again when Toby's out to lunch."

With that Andy drove off, leaving Dwight still looking confused. And with good reason, because his friend was right: Andrew Baines Bernard was not the type of man one would associate with a banjo. Everything else in his life seemed to contradict the rural, hardworking vibe that a banjo represented through both musician and song. Andy Bernard didn't have that blue-collar background. As far as he knew, no Bernard did.

But he had more family than just the Bernards...


	2. Chapter 2

[Stopping here for now (7/12) - tell me what you think so far & I'll hopefully have another update around the weekend.]

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_**Simsbury, CT: July, 1983 (Monday)**_

Ten-year-old Andy Bernard was standing in his front yard, practicing his golf swing. Now that school was out for summer, he had lessons basically every day at the country club. And once his dad came back from his week-long business trip to New York, Andy knew that there would be some father-son golf games he'd have to attend. It wouldn't just be Andy and his dad, mind you, but he and his dad and one of his dad's clients or colleagues and their sons. "Friendly competition," Mr. Bernard called it. Andy was old enough to know those deals were really business situations. But he wasn't old enough to not get angry when he messed up, or when they lost. Andy hated to lose, hated to lose in front of his father and the other men and, possibly worst of all, the other boys who seemed to never make any mistakes. And he wasn't old enough to bury that anger and instead would let it out in the form of stomping the ground or throwing something or yelling. Then his dad would get angry, then Andy would get angrier, then the day would be ruined. Or that's what his dad would say later, in the car when they were alone.

So to keep this summer from being a repeat of last, Andy was taking private lessons. Not that they were helping, because each day he was getting assigned practice swings for "homework" (and how stupid was that? Homework in the summer? For a sport?), and even though he practiced he couldn't get it, just couldn't get it. And since his dad was in another state and his mom was inside the house and his little brother Walter was getting to do whatever he wanted, Andy threw the club as hard as he could at the ground and yelled loudly enough to feel something but not loudly enough for his mother to hear.

Then he took a breath and felt better.

"No wonder they call 'em 'clubs,'" came a drawl from the driveway. "The way you're swingin' it around like a caveman."

Andy looked up in surprise. In the midst of his fury, he hadn't heard anyone come up the drive. There, a few feet away, stood a tall man with sandy hair reaching to his shoulders. In one hand he held an old duffle bag; the other grasped what looked like a guitar case. He had on faded bluejeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Standing in his own yard in his young men's golf outfit, Andy recognized the stranger as an outsider. Immediately suspicious, he glared.

"What do you want?" Andy asked without any friendliness.

The stranger laughed. "Relax, kid. I'm your uncle, come to visit." He walked towards Andy, set down his luggage, and put out his hand. "Dave Baines. How ya doin', Walt?"

Andy scowled. He knew his relatives, and this man wasn't one of them. At the same time, the man called Andy by his original name – the name he'd had until his little brother, the now-Walter, came along. No one had called Andy "Walter" in years.

This was getting out of the boy's league. Andy turned on heel and raced inside the house. When he got to the foyer, he hollered "Mom!" at the top of his lungs. Like clockwork, his mother appeared at the balcony seconds later.

"Andrew, how many times have I told you it is not necessary to yell inside the house?" she said, exasperated.

Andy pointed out the door. "There's a man outside who says he's my uncle, Dave Baines."

Mrs. Bernard frowned. "What did you say?"

"Dave Baines. He's outside." Now that he was talking, Andy was starting to put the pieces together. "Hey, Baines is my middle name. And that was your last name before you married Dad, right Ma?"

Mrs. Bernard came down the stairs, passed her chattering son, and looked out the door. Andy peeked behind her. The man was still standing in the yard where Andy had left him, looking out across the yard and away from the house. Andy heard his mother gasp. "David?" she asked.

At this, the man turned around. "Well hey, sis," he said in that same pleasant voice. "Long time no see."

Andy's mother didn't seem to share the same enthusiasm. "David, what are you doing here?" she asked uncertainly.

Dave walked towards the door. "Well, I ain't seen you in years," he explained. "Last time I saw Walt Junior here he wasn't more than a baby. And now I'm passing through, headed up to Maine, so I thought I'd stop by."

Mrs. Bernard sighed and turned to enter the house. "Well…come in."

With his mother's presence gone, Andy was left looking at the man and seeing, now, his uncle for the first time. The man smiled amiably.

"Just so you know, Walter is the name of my father and my younger brother," Andy remarked coolly. "My name is Andrew."

With that, he disappeared up the stairs, leaving his mother to sort out whatever reason this rough-looking Dave Baines was inside their house. Maybe he was Andy's uncle, but Dave Baines certainly wasn't his concern.


	3. Chapter 3

Brief chapter for now...looking for another update or two by the end of the weekend, hopefully (7/15)

**Chapter 3**

_**July, 1983: Monday Evening**_

David Baines was a musician. Andy learned this at dinner a few hours later, when, upon entering the dining room, he gathered that despite whatever tension there was between his mother and her brother, they had reached some understanding. At least long enough to eat, anyway.

Uncle Dave was a traveling musician, he had said. He mostly stayed in the south and sometimes out west, but he was joining up with a group up in Maine that next week. He knew that the Bernards lived in Connecticut, had their address from yearly Christmas cards, so he thought he'd stop by since, as he put it, his sister didn't grace the area below the Mason-Dixon line with her presence anymore. Andy didn't know exactly what that meant, but his mother must have, because she glared across the table at her brother who was sitting, by his own choice, in Mr. Walter Bernard senior's seat.

"So, Uncle Dave will stay with us for a few days," Mrs. Bernard explained to her sons. "Won't that be fun?" Walter junior grinned, but Andy pushed the food around on his plate and stayed silent. "Dave, you can take the guest room across from Andy's room."

Andy looked up in horror, but Dave shook his head. "Nah, I'm a musician," he argued. "And I live like a true musician. Whenever I travel I mostly crash on couches. I don't wanna put y'all out, so I'll stay in the den."

That was a better situation, definitely, but the fact that this man was staying in their house at all put Andy on edge. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard liked everything to be a "certain way," and Andy was old enough to start following suit. Just from things his parents said or didn't say, Andy understood people like Dave did not belong in their home. He wasn't one of them; anyone could see that.

"You say you travel, but where's your car?" Andy directed at his uncle.

"Don't have one," Uncle Dave replied. "Hitchhiked up to Baltimore, and caught a Greyhound from there."

Andy rolled his eyes. Hitchhiking. Classy. Just like an axe murderer. "Where'd you come from?"

"Harlan, Kentucky," Dave smiled at his sister when he said this. "'My Old Kentucky Home.' The Bluegrass state."

"Where's Harlan?" Andy asked.

Dave gave him a disparaging look across the table. "'Where's Harlan?'" He repeated. "You poor kid. You've probably never left New England, have you?"

Andy narrowed his eyes. "I've been to Europe," he replied pointedly. "Have you?"

"Andrew," Mrs. Bernard warned before turning to her younger son. "Walter, honey, tell your uncle about some of the things you've learned in pre-school."

Andy pushed his plate away. He mostly liked his brother, but right now he didn't care to hear Walter's play-by-play of learning the main parts of a boat, or the field trips to the lake. And he didn't care to hear his mother talk to Walter in that sweet baby-talk way, or see yet another adult become enamored with his little brother's personality.

"I'm going to my room," he said to no one in particular, and left the table without asking if he could, or waiting to see if anyone would stop him.


	4. Chapter 4

7/17: Here's the next update - will be shooting for another mid-week! Also, just a note: what I'm including about the banjo comes from my personal experience playing. I tried to keep anything technical out of it. But if something isn't clear, please tell me. Also, I know there are multiple ways to finger chords (or, in the upcoming chapters, pick rolls), but I'm just going to describe it the way I know it and learned starting out. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

_**July, 1983: Monday Night**_

Andy steered clear of Uncle Dave that evening, opting to stay in his room in lieu of any so-called "family bonding." His dad wouldn't be home until Sunday, after Dave had already left. Andy's mother would probably just mention the event in passing – "Oh, by the way, my brother stopped by for the week" – without giving any details. _No car, no real job, dirty clothes, and staying in our house! Wait until Dad hears about this_, Andy grinned to himself. Mr. Bernard would see to it that this guy never showed his face in Connecticut again. And he'd be proud that Andy was the one who told him.

Andy went to bed early that night, knowing that he could escape in the morning to his golf lesson. The irony that he was actually looking forward to golf didn't escape him.

He woke, though, hours before sunrise. He had had a bad dream, one that had shaken him awake with a gasp and a barely-caught cry. Once Andy's eyes were open, the images immediately dissolved. But the feeling did not.

Andy slipped out of bed and stumbled out of his bedroom. For a moment he considered going to his parents' room at the end of the hall, and crawling into bed with his mother. But when had he last done that? Whenever it was, he remembered he had been given permission, but with the implicit understanding that he was really too old to be doing that.

Reluctantly Andy turned back to his bed, and that's when he realized he could hear faint music in the hallway. It sounded like a guitar, but not really. As if in a trance he followed the sound through the hall, down the stairs, and into the den. There sat his uncle on the couch, playing whatever instrument had been in the case. Andy leaned against the doorway, listening to the music. It was a fast melody, but had an almost soothing effect on him. The lingering bad feelings subsided.

After a moment Dave sensed Andy's presence, looked up, and smiled.

"Hey there, Andrew," he said. "You have a bad dream?"

Andy snapped out of it immediately and stood up taller. "No," he said bluntly. "I just…I couldn't sleep." Not really a lie.

Dave grinned and patted the seat on the couch beside him. "Well, looks like me and you have something in common after all, huh?"

Against his better judgment, Andy wandered over and sat down. "That's a funny looking guitar," he noted.

"That's 'cause it ain't a guitar," Dave replied. "It's a banjo." He strummed the five strings gently, making a twangy chord. "People use them in bluegrass music, mostly. Sometimes in folk and country songs, too. You ever played a guitar?"

Andy shook his head. Some of his friends took music lessons, and Andy knew he'd be starting some in school soon. It was sort of a progression he'd noticed: kids like him played certain sports, learned certain musical instruments, had certain hobbies. He didn't know of anyone in his school playing a banjo, but mostly because even the acoustic guitar was considered an "edgy" choice. When fifth grade music class came up in the fall, Andy figured he'd just sing. After the golf lessons, he was a little afraid to try anything else.

"Well," Dave smiled. "You wanna learn the banjo?"

Andy stared at the instrument, feeling a mix of strange longing and hesitation (he wouldn't call it fear). "Okay," he said finally. "But…I might not be any good at it."

Dave shrugged. "Don't matter. It's just for fun," he said, scooting closer so that he and Andy were side-by-side. Dave draped his right arm across Andy's shoulder before transferring the banjo to the boy's lap.

"Now hold it like this," Dave instructed, putting his large hands over his nephew's smaller ones. Andy reached up to hold the neck with his left hand, feeling the weight of the instrument.

"It's heavy," he remarked.

"Yeah, that's 'cause this back part here is a resonator," Dave explained. "You know what that is?" Andy shook his head. "It means the back works like an amplifier or speaker you see hooked up to electric guitars. This baby comes made with one already installed – means you can play it pretty damn loud when you aim to.

"Okay, first lesson," Dave took Andy's right hand in his own and, using the back of Andy's fingers, strummed down the strings. Andy felt the banjo vibrate against his stomach as the strings harmonized. "And now you already know one chord – that's a G," Dave said proudly.

Andy looked up at his uncle, shocked it could be that easy. "Really?" he exclaimed.

"We call it open-G, because you're not fretting – that means pushing down the strings at these markers," Dave said, pointing out the perpendicular lines on the banjo's neck. "Now, to make a C, you do this." Dave positioned Andy's left fingers at the top of the neck like a claw. "Middle finger on the first fret, first and ring finger on the second," he explained. "And now we strum."

Andy strummed again and sure enough, the chord changed. Involuntarily, Andy lifted his left fingers and strummed the G, then paused to make the claw-sign and strummed a C. G…C…G.

"Wow," Andy whispered breathlessly.

"Yeah!" encouraged Dave. "That's the way, kid! See, you're a natural." He removed his arm from around his nephew and scooted away. "Try it on your own."

The banjo was heavier without his uncle there to support it, but in his excitement Andy barely noticed. Back and forth he strummed from G to C, hearing the difference in tone. It wasn't perfect, certainly – he could already tell when he fretted the wrong string, or didn't give enough pressure, or didn't push down on the correct fret. And even when he did it right, it still wasn't as melodic as when his uncle played. But for once, Andy didn't care it wasn't perfect. And Uncle Dave didn't seem to, either. They sat together on the couch, laughing as Andy went back and forth: G… C…G…C. Over and over and over.

_I could do this all night_, Andy thought, and at that moment his mother appeared in the doorway.

"Andrew," she said sharply, and Andy jumped, nearly dropping the banjo. "It's after midnight! Why aren't you in bed?"

"Hey sis," Dave said sheepishly. "Kid couldn't sleep, was probably my playin' that woke him."

Mrs. Bernard narrowed her eyes at her brother. "Andrew, go to bed," she said finally. "You have golf lessons in the morning."

Andy reluctantly handed the banjo back to his uncle and turned to go. His mother followed, and as Andy looked back into the den, Dave gave him a conspiratorial wink. Andy beamed in spite of himself, the sounds of the banjo still circling in his head.


	5. Chapter 5

7/20: Most likely the penultimate update - will probably have this finished over the weekend. Enjoy!

**Chapter 5**

_**July, 1983: Tuesday-Friday.**_

Maybe this was what love was like, Andy thought the next morning at his golf lessons. He had never been in love before, not really, but he couldn't get the banjo out of his head. He didn't even care that he seemed to be worse than ever at golf, and while his teacher did not appreciate the lack of effort, he seemed pleased with Andy's improved demeanor.

"You gotta get your head on the green," the instructor said at the end of the morning lesson. "But thanks for not throwing the club today, Bernard. Good progress there."

Andy just smiled and thought in his head: _G…C…G…C.._

When he got home, Andy didn't even wait to change out of his golf clothes. He raced straight into the den and found his uncle sprawled out on the couch, pouring over a map.

"Hey," Andy said breathlessly. "Can I, uh, play it again? The banjo?"

Dave grinned and shoved the map aside. "Sure thing, Andrew. But change outta them clothes first. Your pants are liable to drown out the music, loud as they are."

Andy looked down at his attire and, for the first time in his life, laughed at what he was wearing. He might've fit in on the golf course, but compared to his uncle's practical bluejeans and plaid style, Andy had to admit he looked pretty ridiculous. "I'll be back," he said before racing up the stairs. "Hey, call me Andy, by the way!" he hollered once he was out of sight.

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><p>So began their tradition for the next few days. Although Andy knew his mother was aware of what they were doing, he noticed she wouldn't directly acknowledge it. Actually, Andy considered, she barely acknowledged Dave himself, treating him more like he was one of Andy's friends who was staying over (hospitable, yes, but ultimately detached and somewhat uninterested), rather than her own flesh-and-blood. No matter. That just meant more time to play.<p>

Every morning Andy would go to his lessons, come straight home, and spend the afternoon and sometimes evening playing the banjo with his uncle. They started with strumming basic chords, but later in the week Dave showed Andy how to pick.

That Friday evening was cool for summer, so they sat outside and watched the lightning bugs while Dave tuned the banjo.

"Now you've got strumming down, but most banjo players don't strum," Dave explained. "They pick." As an example, he plucked a fast-paced melody.

Andy didn't even try to hide his amazement. "Whoa," he breathed. "That's, like, impossible!"

Dave shook his head. "No such thing, son" he replied. "It's what we call a roll. Or a pattern. You pick the same strings over and over, and you change chords so it sounds different. And what comes out makes it sound harder than it is."

Dave placed the banjo back in Andy's lap and put his right hand over his nephew's. "Like this," Dave said, gently using his fingers to guide Andy's to a slow roll: first finger on second string, middle finger on first string, thumb on fifth string. First finger, middle finger, thumb.

"I hear it!" Andy exclaimed.

"That's called a forward roll. You learn to do that fast enough, and no one can hear where it begins and ends. Someday you'll wanna use finger picks like I do," Dave showed Andy the metal wrapped around his thumb, first, and middle fingers. "But for just starting out, this'll do.

"Now, you wanna get more complicated," Dave repositioned Andy's fingers on the strings, "we do this one."

Thumb on third, first on second, thumb on fifth, middle on first. Thumb, first, thumb, middle. That roll was complicated. Even with his uncle's help, Andy stumbled. But he hardly noticed over the sound.

"That one's called a Scruggs roll," Dave explained. "Named for a famous musician, and we use it in bluegrass a lot. Now, you can do more than that, but you get the general idea: it's all about patterns and repetition. Outside of that, you can do most anything."

"So, there aren't any rules to follow?"

Dave shook his head. "Not particularly. Playing the banjo, you mostly improvise. You learn the chords, you learn the rolls. You find the key you need to be in, and then you just play what sounds good. What feels good. And that's about all there is to it."

Andy shook his head in amazement. "Wow. That's nothing like golf."

"Yeah, thank God," Dave scoffed. He took the banjo back and picked out a soft tune. The same song he had playing the night Andy found him in the den. "Golf lessons," Dave muttered after a minute. "Never thought I'd see it in the family. Lord, but my sister did a real good job givin' you and your brother this life."

Andy frowned. "What do you mean?"

Dave stopped playing, reached over and took Andy's hand. "Look there," he said. "Your hand's as smooth as the day you were born. You ever had to do hard work, Andy?"

"I help my parents out all the time," Andy argued, though feeling a little like he was lying. "And I watch Walter sometimes when they need me to, and—"

"No, I mean real work. I mean work that puts calluses on your hands."

Andy wanted to be angry. That should have been an accusation, but Dave sounded genuine, like he really wanted to know. The boy truthfully shook his head: no.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dave went back to the banjo. "What do you know about your family, Andy?"

"Well, the Bernards came over on the Mayflower and—"

"No, no, not them. Your mom's family. She ever tell you about us?"

"Um…she said grandma and grandpa Baines died before I was born." Andy paused. "Before she even met Dad. But…I didn't know she was from Kentucky. And she never mentioned you."

Dave smiled sadly. "Yeah, I figured as much. You seemed pretty surprised to see me when I showed up. It'd been a while since I'd seen you last, so I shoulda known your mama wouldn't be talkin' about me. That'd mean she'd have to remember where she comes from, and it ain't as nice as what she's got now.

"'Course, I can't say blame her," he continued. "Reckon you and your brother never worried about when you'd eat next, huh? Or if you'd have decent clothes to wear to school? Or how you'd stay warm in winter?" Andy was old enough to know to stay silent, aware Dave already knew the answer. "Ah hell. Kids shouldn't have to live like that. If I were her, I'da probably made the same choice."

"What choice?"

"To leave town once she was able. Get a scholarship, go to school north. Hook up with some ivy-league boy and his family and leave the past behind. Marry your daddy, that is," Dave explained. "Now, her leaving everything else behind, it means y'all kids'll have a good life, certainly. But you know what else it means, Andy?"

Squirming uncomfortably, Andy shook his head. He didn't like feeling guilty for something he didn't choose. For something that happened before he came along. But at the same time, he couldn't stop listening.

"It means you're only half a person," Dave continued. "You're ten years old, and you only know your dad's side, because that's what your mama embraced and made her own long before you and Walter ever came along. You think this is your whole history, son, but it ain't. You got a whole 'nother family tree out there, and even though your grandma and grandpa are gone, they're still part of you. The Baineses all are, all of us.

Dave stopped picking the banjo, and held it out to Andy. "This banjo belonged to your grandpa. Mine and your mama's daddy. I don't have kids, and you're your mama's first-born. So by all accounts, it's really yours."

Andy shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak after everything his uncle had said, but he had to say it. Dave had to know. "I'm oldest, but Wal—Walter sort of gets everything like that," he confessed softly. _Like my name_, his mind added before he could stop it.

"Well, maybe this ain't Walter's thing," Dave responded thoughtfully. "Don't get me wrong, I love hanging out with the boy in the mornings, but…" Dave paused, looked at Andy and grinned. "Back when we lived in Kentucky as kids, I could get your mama so mad she'd scream loud enough to wake the dead. And we didn't have golf clubs, but she could wield a stick against me harder than anyone I've ever known."

Andy laughed and shook his head. "No way!"

"Sure enough. That spitfire in you comes from our side, son," Dave laughed. "Anyway, my point is, you got another history to learn. Whether you do or not is your own choice, but you gotta know it's there. Wherever you go from now on, whatever choice you make, it'll always still be there. Don't ever forget that."

Andy nodded, and he and his uncle sat in silence, watching the sun set in the Connecticut sky. Briefly Andy wondered if it looked the same in Kentucky.


	6. Chapter 6

7/24: Last update with the final two (short) chapters - hope you've enjoyed it!

_**July, 1983: Friday night/Saturday morning**_

Late that night Andy was awakened by the sound of a car pulling up the drive. _Dad must be back early_, he thought groggily.

A few minutes later he could hear footsteps and voices down the hall. The walls were thick in the Bernard house, but noises still resonated through the vaulted ceilings in the foyer and the long hallways. Especially at night. Andy could pick out the voices tonight: his father, agitated; his mother, concerned; his uncle, pacifying.

His uncle. That was it. Dad had come home early and hadn't expected to find Andy's uncle staying with them. Andy chuckled to himself before drifting back to sleep. Dad was surprised, that was all. It'd be worked out in the morning.

An hour or so later, Andy sensed his door open. He was too tired to fully rouse from sleep, so he assumed it was his father checking in before going to bed. Whoever it was didn't stay long, because the door shut almost immediately.

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><p>The next morning, Andy awoke to see the banjo case leaning against the end of his bed. Wedged in the opening was a note:<p>

_Andy – _

_Been called away to Maine earlier than expected. I meant to teach you more, but you've got the basics and can learn the rest on your own. Leaving your granddaddy's banjo with you. I'll pick up a new one on the way._

_Take care, son, and look me up if you're ever in Kentucky._

_-Dave_

Below that, Dave had listed his address. Andy blinked a few times, reading the note again to see if there was something he'd missed. His uncle had left? Just like that? It was only Saturday - Uncle Dave was supposed to stay through the weekend!

Andy jumped out of bed and raced down the stairs into the kitchen, awkwardly hauling the banjo case with him. He found his mother and father sitting at the kitchen table, reading newspapers and drinking coffee.

"Where's Uncle Dave?" Andy demanded.

"Hey there, sport," his father said amiably. "How've you been?"

"Where's Uncle Dave?" Andy repeated emphatically.

Mr. and Mrs. Bernard looked at each other across the table. Andy was old enough to know what that meant: he was about to only get half of the story.

"Uncle Dave decided to leave a few days early," his mother said finally. "There was a bus leaving for Maine, and he wanted to take it. Something about getting a head start up the coast, more time to practice."

"That's right," agreed his father. "I drove him to the station myself, so he wouldn't have to walk. Now, how's your golf game coming along?"

Andy glared at his father. "You made him leave," he said matter-of-factly. "You didn't want him here, because he's not like us. He's not _your_ family. And you made him leave."

"Andrew," Mr. Bernard said, his voice suddenly weary. "That's not what happened. Don't get involved in this."

"What's that you have, son?" his mother interrupted.

Andy clutched the case. "Uncle Dave's banjo. He left it for me."

"Oh Christ," Mr. Bernard sighed. "Andy, give that to me. You can't keep it – we'll mail it back."

"No!" Andy exclaimed. Immediately he felt angry, like yelling or throwing something. But the weight in his hands reminded him not to blow it, so instead he took a deep breath. "It's mine, Dad," he said, forcing his voice to stay calm but firm. "Uncle Dave told me so. I'm going to keep it."

Without waiting to see if anyone would stop him, Andy left the kitchen and, once out of his parents' vision, fled back up to his room. Still angry, he sat on his bed and pulled out the banjo. As always, it was heavier to hold without his uncle there to help.

Andy strummed an open G chord, transitioned to C, then back to G. When he felt he had calmed down enough, he decided to practice the forward roll. But what finger went first? Thumb…middle. No, that wasn't right. First finger first. First…middle…thumb. Yeah, that was it. Just like Uncle Dave had shown him. First, middle, thumb. Better. Andy noticed a dull ache in his chest, and he blinked back tears he hadn't realized were there. First, middle, thumb. Over and over. It was dumb to miss somebody you'd only known for five days. Andy was old enough to know that.

He focused on the roll. After a while, the repetition got better, faster, and Andy didn't think so much about what he'd lost. What he didn't known he had in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Lyrics at the end are taken from "Daddy Played the Banjo" by Steve Martin (an excellent modern bluegrass song). It is possible that the referenced episode takes place before this song would have been out, but let's just call it a deliberate anachronism if so.

**Chapter 7**

_**Scranton, PA: April 2009**_

As Andy drove home from Dunder-Mifflin, memories of his uncle swirled through his head. Despite having the address, Andy never tracked Dave down after that one week. As years went on, he would feel a felt a pang of sadness when he realized he had all but forgotten his uncle's face. But memories were bound to fade after seeing someone for only five days when you were ten years old.

Well, maybe not fade, but be traded for something else. Andy liked to think what he memorized about the banjo replaced what little he could remember about his uncle. Starting that Saturday back in July, Andy had worked hard to learn to play the banjo proficiently. Ultimately he'd had to do it alone. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard were always financially supportive of their sons, but they refused to pay for banjo lessons. It was hard enough for Andy to convince his father to let him keep the instrument. So Andy did what his uncle had told him. He learned the chords. He mastered the rolls. He figured out the key. Then he played what felt right.

In time, it all came together.

Through the car window's reflection, Andy caught a glimpse of himself and wondered what his uncle would say now. Short hair, shaved face, expensive tie, button down shirt, sweater vest. Loud pants. And hands that still lacked any real calluses.

From that perspective, it was obvious. Andy was definitely a Bernard on the outside, just as he was when he was ten. Sometimes he wondered if he should feel guilty about it. Dave was right: there were two parts of him, and here he was, a grown man, who still only knew half. And that was the part he had embraced. But maybe that's what you had to do sometimes.

Walking into his house, Andy immediately loosened his tie and pulled out the banjo. "Baines," he had named it in secret, because he never found out his grandfather's name and the surname seemed like a close enough homage. Maybe that was why his mother gave it to him as a middle name.

His mother. After Dave disappeared, Andy had waited for Mrs. Bernard to tell him something else, anything else, about her family. But she never did. It was as if any knowledge of the past had disappeared along with her brother. Sometimes Andy argued with himself whether or not he should have asked her straight out. But wasn't it her place, as his mother, to initiate that conversation?

Ultimately he realized his uncle was right. Mrs. Bernard had buried that part of her life and embraced something else. Which was fine, Andy thought. Because even though he didn't know those people, the Baineses, they were still with him. Every time he placed his hands on the banjo, they were with him. At least he knew it.

Andy took the instrument outside and sat in a chair, as he often did in the evenings. He started out the same as always, strumming G, C, G, C, G, C. Like a mantra or an offering. Better and faster than when he was a kid, but he felt the same excitement as the banjo resonated against his stomach. Just like that first night.

He ran a few rolls as warm-up before finally picking out a song. Today, as the sun went down and the early spring chill filled the air, he sang along. Maybe it was for himself, or maybe for his uncle, who could be anywhere or nowhere by now. His uncle, whom Andy tried to remember often, but had never seen again after those five summer days in 1983.

_But I'm just telling lies about the things I did,_

_See I'm that banjo player who never had a kid._

_Now I sit beneath that yellow tree,_

_Hopin' that a kid somewhere is listening to me._

Andy let the rolls and the chords take over, circling from his fingers to the strings and through the banjo and into the air before filtering out into a space that he himself could not fill. Maybe traveling far enough to where, like the song said, a child could hear him playing.

Maybe even as far as Harlan, Kentucky, to the other half of his family tree.

_Now the banjo takes me back through the foggy haze,_

_Where memories of what never was become the good ol' days._


End file.
